Uncivilized
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Follow-up to "Unconscionable." Plot twist: this time the aliens *don't* make them do it. (Rushbelle)


Rush reaches for the pile of brushwood and dried swamp grass, careful not to jostle Belle and disrupt her sleep. He feeds their small campfire slowly, watching as the orange embers crackle back to life and the flames leap upwards toward his scratched, dirty hand.

Belle taught him—_him, the lifelong city boy, who never got his hands dirty, not literally_—how to do this properly. Where to hunt for dry timber and kindling, how best to store it, and how to avoid smothering a small blaze.

He'd be dead if it weren't for Belle French.

Not only because of…_before—_the encounter that's gone unmentioned—but because Belle understands how to do _this. _How to create fire from sunlight and tinder and a lens taken from his broken eyeglasses. How to create shelter from forked branches and thick underbrush. How to set snares for the local wildlife and also how to follow their tracks to the nearest water source.

"I was a Girl Guide back in Melbourne," she had explained, shrugging. "Surely there was something similar back in Glasgow? Girl Scouts? The Boys' Brigade?"

Yes, it's entirely possible, but the essentials of wilderness survival never much interested him. Rush's boyhood was spent with a notebook, a secondhand telescope, and a rusty protractor. Even his father, distracted by lousy finances and multiple low-paying jobs, would occasionally fuss at him to go outside and get some fucking fresh air.

Well, he's got plenty of it now.

Belle shifts between his thighs, sighing heavily. Her cheek is pressed against his stiff, denim fly, and her tangled hair spills over his lap. She's got his right leg warming her back, his left leg warming her front, and a fistful of his filthy, cotton vest clutched in one hand. Her eyes are closed, and the firelight casts shadows across her lovely, serene face.

She's encouraged him to sleep like this, too: his head cradled in her warm lap, her legs used for insulation when the planet's temperature drops at night—but Rush refuses.

He talks in his sleep and doesn't want Belle near enough to hear it.

"Rush…" She burrows her face against his thigh, stretching slowly. "My turn now?"

They sleep in shifts, watching the looming, motionless Stargate, fearful of being overlooked by a rescue party from Destiny.

Fearful of being found by anyone—or _anything_—else.

"You've got a little while yet," he answers quietly, resting a hand on her shoulder.

It's a lie—the swamp planet's third moon has already begun its descent in the strange night sky, and it's his turn to sleep—but he's loathe to fully wake her. Belle works so damn hard during the daylight hours, finding food, purifying their water, and exploring the nearby territories.

And also—it's _nice,_ these quiet, tender moments while she's limp and yielding, slumped across his lap. Trusting him.

"Fibbing," she mumbles, and pushes herself upright, rubbing at her eyes. Rush finds himself immediately missing the lovely warmth and weight of her.

They so rarely touch, aside from these restless, fleeting catnaps. He doesn't know exactly _what_ he expected after she took him in her arms aboard that alien spacecraft—but it wasn't _this._ Not endless, largely silent days spent working side-by-side, with Belle barely looking at him.

Does she blame him for this?

_For all of it?_

"Did you know," Belle yawns, her voice still scratchy from sleep, "that IQ's drop by a full standard deviation after a poor night's rest?"

"Doesn't matter much now, does it?" he responds dully, moving away from her, staring at the filth beneath his too-long fingernails. "They aren't coming back for us. And even a dullard can forage and stack rocks."

She draws back her lips, but it's not a proper smile. "That's it? You've been coiled and ready to strike for a full week now, just wishing I'd give you a proper target, and that's _all_ you're going to say, Rush? 'They aren't coming back for us?'"

He consults his memory and is disconcerted to realize that Belle is probably right. If she'd given him half an opening, he would have been venting his temper and tilting at windmills—railing against his plans thwarted and the utter fucking _ridiculousness_ of Dr. Nicholas Rush transformed into some sort of intergalactic…_homesteader. _

When he'd been so damn close to unraveling the mysteries of the bloody universe.

He ducks his head. "If you didn't want to hear it before, why would you want to hear it _now?"_ His voice is steel-edged, and he moves further away still, over to the opposite side of the campfire.

"Before I was preoccupied with our…long-range plans. Now that I'm satisfied we won't be starving to death or succumbing to exposure any time soon, I'm ready for a proper tirade against fate and the heavens and all our hopes dashed."

He's beyond put out that she's having a go at him. Over _this._ "You could have maybe let me in on our _long-range plans,"_ he mutters, stretching out on his side in the dirt, facing away from her. "I could have helped. I'm not nearly so useless and foul-tempered as you're painting me."

He settles his head in the crook of his arm and shuts his eyes.

"No," Belle agrees softly, "you're not." And she smiles at his hunched, narrow back—a real smile this time. "It was a serious invitation, Rush. If you want to rail against fate, I'll listen. Though you should know that I still believe chances are very good they'll be back for us. If Dr. Perry has any ability to impact the ship's systems, you know she'd move heaven and earth to rescue you. And I've become quite close with several members of the crew."

Belle twists her silver ring round and round on her right hand, staring at his tense shoulders. Such a nettlesome, intoxicating man.

"They won't leave us," she concludes, "not if they can help it."

Is it the Scot in him that has his blood pressure skyrocketing at Belle's offhand mention of her _closeness_ with someone aboard Destiny? At the calm way she acknowledges and accepts Mandy's supposed claim upon him? _Well, fuck. _Is it really possible that after what happened…_before—_one of the best sexual experiences of his entire fucking life, in actual fact—can it really be possible that it affected Belle not at all?

_And how fucking sad is that?_

Likely the reality of him has blotted out the fantasy.

He brings his knees up a bit closer to his chest and tries to turn off his frenetic, chattering brain.

_"Rush,"_ Belle murmurs, standing and walking over to him, "I'm bloody tired of watching you thrash about on the ground night after night." She stoops and kneels close beside him, her long hair brushing over his neck. "You don't say anything all that interesting in your sleep, anyway. Equations, mostly."

He can sense her dimpled smile without seeing it.

Belle settles herself in the dirt, stretching out her feet toward the fire and crossing her legs at the ankles. He exhales slowly, gratefully, when she lifts his head into her warm lap and begins to massage the sore spot just below his right ear, always tender from the way he clenches and grinds his jaw.

"Do you blame me for all this?" he asks, his voice muffled against her soft midsection. Belle shifts a bit, and he opens his tired, bloodshot eyes when he feels her twill jacket draped over his shoulders. It's snug from the heat of her body. Sweetly comforting.

"Of course not," she assures him, her fingers dancing upwards to rub slow circles over his dirt-streaked temple. "We needed supplies. We had to stop." She turns her attention to his lank, unwashed hair, smoothing it back over and over, and he groans quietly, involuntarily, remembering the way she held and yanked his hair—_before._

"You need some sleep, Rush" Belle informs him, far too kindly, and he makes a throaty, reluctant noise of protest when her fingers grow still against his skull.

If he wasn't already encased in the welcome, scorching, _tempting_ heat of her—if his treacherous mind would simply stop looping back to fucking _before—before_ when he'd been so painfully, excruciatingly close to the single fantasy he's held on to since fucking _secondary school_—well, then maybe he could have kept his damned mouth shut.

Instead, Rush finds himself whispering hoarsely: "It isn't _sleep _I need…" and jerking his scruffy face upwards to see how Belle will take his meaning.

_If_ she'll take it.

Her blue eyes flash dark, all at once wide and inscrutable, and she makes an odd little noise deep within her throat. "You _do_ need sleep. And better food than what I've been finding for us. But—tell me…what _else_ do you need, Rush?" Mercifully, her fingers slide along his clenched, whiskered jaw.

_There it is._ A low, lilting, _cautious_ invitation. That sweet siren tone from _before._

Belle bends over him, peering into his unblinking, dilated eyes, examining his drawn expression—and then she bends lower and lower still, brushing the tips of her breasts against his shoulder and her lips over his parted mouth.

She tastes of the wood smoke they've been inhaling and the tart berries they ate for supper. She'd sucked the small, purple fruits slowly, trying to make them last, and had even joked about them being their _amuse-bouche_. Belle's so fucking brave, with her empty, growling stomach, never once complaining, never once giving up hope.

Their tongues touch, then twist and duel within his mouth, but it's nowhere _near_ enough, this sweetly amorous greeting, this little taste of her. He doesn't _want_ teasing and slow and hesitant _now,_ no, _oh no,_ he wants—_he wants…_

Rush lurches upwards, struggling to right himself and also to keep on kissing Belle at the same time. It isn't particularly graceful, this eager struggle, but he manages it all the same, breathing hard, his hair falling forward against their flushed cheeks.

Her hands, bless them, reach immediately for the zip on his trousers.

Has she guessed how uncomfortably tight the denim has become? How fucking _hard_ he's hoping—_praying_—she won't make him wait?

Belle struggles with his leather belt, all the while kissing his throat, and he feels himself go a bit mad with it, the sweet intoxication of running his hands over her body and knowing that Belle's indifference was nothing more than a show put on for the both of them.

_"God, I've wanted you,"_ she whispers, and it's like she's put a match to him. Fire ignites within his belly and all along his rigid cock.

"Show me how you want it, Rush," Belle demands breathlessly, her lips warm against his ear, ruffling his hair, "Do you want it like this?"—she leans backwards a little, as if to fall in the dirt and let him plow her against the ground—"Or do you want it like _this?"_ And she leans forward against him, bending _him_ backwards, and he groans aloud because, _fuck, she's got the way of it, now._ Belle understands this particular fantasy.

Somehow he knew she would.

He's always wanted to be _taken._ To be so desperately desired by a woman that she's willing to fucking shove him down on the floor and have her way with him. Not the affectionate, detached bemusement of Gloria (God love her) and not—_oh, Christ forgive him_—the cloying, sycophantic sweetness of Mandy, but somehow to be seen _fully,_ just as he is: a flawed, arrogant, moody _prick—_and to be desired fiercely, nonetheless.

God, how he's wanted this. How long he's _waited_ for it.

"Yeah, _like this then,"_ Belle very nearly growls, and then his breathing stops completely, watching the fire blaze within her dark, unfocused eyes.

She gives him a little shove, and he falls back in the dirt, breathing through his open mouth—_wanting her kisses, wanting her hands on him. _

He reaches for her, his chest heaving, suddenly remembering to draw breath.

"I've wanted you so many different ways," she whispers, licking and biting her plump lower lip, "but _this way—"_ She yanks up his two cotton shirts so roughly they almost tear, _"—this_ way, when you're mine _completely,_ this way is my very favorite…"

Belle straddles him and dips swiftly forward, bathing his bare, pale torso with her wet lips and hot, lapping tongue. He moans and rocks against her while she makes her way slowly upwards toward his slender chest, drawing his pebbled left nipple tightly into her mouth.

Suckling him, flickering her tongue over the tight little bud, she reaches down and roughly cups him through his jeans.

Rush grinds his teeth, arches his hips, finds himself light-headed, wanting—fucking _panting_—yet somehow manages to rasp out: _"More!"_

Her right hand dives downwards into his too-tight trousers, searching beneath his soft briefs, and then he's roaring when she wraps her fingers around his aching cock, and gives his sensitive nipple a hard little suck.

"I'm going to make you _fall apart,"_ Belle promises him, her breathing every bit as ragged as his, hot and moist against his chest. "And afterwards," she says, licking him, "you're going to sleep for _days."_

Nicholas Rush, scientist, Mensa member, and fucking _Dux Litterarum_ every year whilst he studied at Oxford, allows his head to fall against dirt with a sharp crack and arches his hips, bellowing.

_"Fuck! Fuck! More Belle!" _

He wants to sob with relief when she scrambles at the waist of his trousers, tugging them lower, down around his lean thighs. His thick, curved cock is out in the open air now, tip glistening, and his balls are drawn up tight—both from the chill in the night air and the blazing fire within his gut.

He begins to buck his hips, not knowing if he wants her hot mouth or her exquisite body surrounding him, beyond caring, just inarticulately begging her for bloody _more._

Belle presses a steadying hand to his damp chest, and captures his bobbing cock quickly within her mouth, sucking and lapping. He presses a knuckle from his right hand against his drawn-back lips, trying and failing to hold onto his dignity and stay somewhat quiet.

The other hand he buries in her soft, tangled hair.

"Let me hear you," she gasps around his cock, "Let me hear you, Rush!" and so he tears his right hand away and lets her hear _all_ of it. The begging, the profanity, the high-pitched pleas, the panting and the groaning for her to give him _more, more, more, please more._

Abruptly, his slick cock is left stranded and straining, her mouth coming off him with a wet little pop, and seconds later Belle is astride him, her own trousers tugged down at the thighs. The cotton fabric is pressing against his aching balls, making him beg for _harder, faster, now, fuck, please, yes._ She's so gloriously tight around him, gripping him deep within, her inner muscles squeezing and her mouth falling open.

Rush's eyes are screwed shut, and this apparently does not meet with Belle's approval, because she's lightly scratching along his rough cheek, telling him: _"Look at me. Look at me, Rush. I'm—God, I'm going to come fast, and I want you to see it."_

He moans, holding her fervid stare, and sees the way she trembles above him, rocking against his pelvis, seeking her pleasure with his cock. _All hers, entirely hers._ She grinds and shakes, biting her lip, and her nails sink deep into his shoulders.

_God, she's a beauty._

Belle's full cheeks flush pink, and her body goes rigid. She chokes out something—his name. She's falling apart on top of him—_because of him. Yes, fuck._

With unspeakable relief, he relaxes his taunt thighs and his clenched, quivering arse and allows himself to finally fucking _come,_ calling out for Belle and gripping her slim waist, shuddering and pouring himself into her. She drapes herself over his chest, breathing hard and kissing his hair.

"Well, this is real fucking civilized."

Over his left shoulder, Rush hears a familiar, sardonic voice. He jerks upwards, twisting around, hiding Belle's body.

Unbelievably, it's _him _speaking. A slightly cleaner version, looking a bit beat up about the face, but still—_him._ Is he having some sort of an out of body experience? Has it really been that long since he was properly laid?

"What, you've been here one _week?_ And—_with_ _French?"_

Other-Rush arches his eyebrow, thoroughly disgusted, and Belle fumbles for her belt loops, tugging up her trousers as Young and Greer walk through the activated Stargate.

How in the hell did they miss it dialing? Fuck. And how is he in two bloody places at once? Unless…possibly—_the wormhole?_

Already his brain is scrambling to work out this strange turn of events. To fully understand the implications. He tugs up his jeans and helps Belle to her feet.

They're both a bit unsteady.

"This is…unexpected, obviously," she says, smiling at Young, Greer, and Other-Rush, "but we're very glad to see you. Thrilled, actually."

Other-Rush mutters something under his breath as they walk past him toward the rippling Stargate. It sounds a bit like:

_"Fucking uncivilized."_


End file.
